The watch-fires were burning low. It was the dark hour before the dawn, and the sky was inky black. Softly the bugles sounded. How many a soul did they call to death! But no one thought of that. There was the hurrying tread of thousands of feet. There was the rumbling of guns as they were moved down into position to cover the advance of the troops. There were the clanking of arms and the fervently uttered “God speeds!” by those who, through sickness or other cause, were unable to leave. Again the bugles sounded the advance. Soon the camp was silent, and the little army was winding down the valley. And as daylight spread over the face of heaven, the storming commenced. Undeterred by the deadly streams of bullets and shot that were poured out, heroic bands of men advanced to the gates, each man carrying in his arms a bag of powder, which was laid down at the gates, with the coolness and intrepidity which so astonished the natives during the mutiny. From this duty few of the dauntless soldiers escaped alive. But nothing could deter the hearts of steel that, in the face of death and slaughter, piled the bags against the massive gates. Presently, even above the roar of the artillery, was heard the sound of the awful explosions that announced the successful accomplishment of the hazardous task. Before the clouds had cleared away, the bugles sounded the advance, and through the shattered gateways the victorious army poured, and soon the tread of the English troops resounded in the deserted halls and corridors of the palace of the Mogul. We must draw a veil over the awful carnage, fierce reprisals, and almost unparalleled slaughter that ensued. The British had to fight their way into the city inch by inch, and several days elapsed before they had entirely defeated the enemy. The grey-haired miscreant, who had thought himself a king, was made a prisoner. His infamous sons were shot like dogs, and their bodies cast into the river.[7] The “Great White Hand” was triumphant; it had crushed the “House of Timour” into the dust; it had broken and destroyed the power of England’s enemies, and had vindicated the outraged honour of the British nation. _Animo non astutiâ._ * * * * * * * Amongst the English officers who were wounded during the assault was Lieutenant Harper. He received a terrible sword cut on his left arm from a Sepoy who was feigning death. He slew his enemy, and then binding up his gashed arm in his scarf, he continued to courageously lead his men, until, through loss of blood, he fainted. He was then placed in the ambulance and carried back to the English camp on the Ridge. When the wound had been dressed, and he recovered consciousness, almost the first face his eyes met was Haidee’s. His life had been spared, and her thankfulness found vent in an eloquent silence, passing the eloquence of words. * * * * * * *